


First Kisses

by aurilly



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-19
Updated: 2008-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times Sylar and Mohinder kissed for the first time. It's a lot angstier than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mohinder turned the car off and put the keys in his pocket. He picked up the two cups of coffee that were sitting in the cup holders, and then frowned as he remembered the brown paper bag in front of him. Putting one of the cups back down, he opened the car door and bent forwards to pick the bag up with his teeth before picking the other coffee cup up again. He slammed the door shut with his knee after exiting. Mohinder was glad it was entirely too early for anyone to be in the motel's parking lot and see him looking so ridiculous.

Internally he was bouncing, and he was almost past feeling embarrassed about how silly that was. However, he told himself to keep it under wraps, for various reasons. First of all, there was the coffee, which he didn't want to spill. Secondly, a large part of him knew that these feelings were somewhat inappropriate. Lastly, there was always the chance that he was completely misreading all of the little signals from the previous couple of days, and that the churning feelings in his gut were unrequited.

The note Mohinder had hastily written 45 minutes ago saying where he was going was still where he had left it outside Zane's door. Mohinder wondered if Zane was still asleep, and felt a slight clench in his stomach at the thought of Zane snuggled under the covers. He wondered what---if anything---Zane slept in, and…

"Stop it," Mohinder growled at himself between his clenched teeth, and shook the dangerous train of thought out of his head, making the bag hit him on the chin in the process.

He kicked the door to Zane's room with his boot and emitted a loud grunt, the most articulate sound he could make with a bag in his mouth. There was a pause, and then Zane's voice, much more clipped and aggressive than Mohinder was accustomed to (it was somehow even sexier, he thought) called out, "Yes? Who is it?"

Mohinder couldn't answer, and so just kicked again, hoping Zane would intuitively understand that it was him.

"I'm not dressed. I'll be there in a minute," Zane yelled in cold irritation. Now Mohinder hoped that Zane didn't intuitively know it was him; he didn't want to think Zane would talk to him in such a tone.

Mohinder knew it would make a lot more sense to just go to his room and call Zane on the phone, telling him come over and pick up his breakfast, but with his hands occupied, Mohinder couldn't reach his keys. Yes, he could rest the coffee on the ground to get into his pockets, but he really didn't want to give up on the whole surprise breakfast-at-your-door idea that he'd been planning since the middle of the night. He also didn't want to miss out on this chance to see the inside of Zane's motel room. Mohinder knew it was the same as his, but something about it being Zane's filled him with curiosity. Everything about Zane filled him with curiosity. And now Mohinder was wondering exactly how "not dressed" Zane was.

One benefit of these silly crushy feelings was that the way they warmed him up inside counteracted the winter chill in his extremities. He knocked his boots against one another so that he wouldn't track snow into the room when Zane finally opened the door and (hopefully) let him in.

A couple of minutes passed, and Mohinder was starting to feel desperate. He decided to give one last kick before giving up.

"Alright, already!" Zane grumbled just before opening the door. Mohinder found himself again loving the heightened aggression in his voice. Mmm. He was gratified to see the anger disappear entirely from Zane's face as soon as he saw Mohinder in the doorway. It was replaced by a kind of giddy surprise that looked pretty similar to how Mohinder felt. It confirmed to him that he hadn't misread the signals after all. However, at the same time, Mohinder was somewhat saddened to see the sexy brusqueness disappear so entirely.

"Mohinder!" Zane cried. "I'm sorry I took my time there. I thought you were the motel management come to bother us about the bill or something. If I had known it was you… Here, let me help you." Zane gently grasped the paper bag, and Mohinder opened his mouth to let him take it. All he could think of was that Zane's thumb was incredibly close to Mohinder's mouth right now, and how nice it would be if he touched his face…

"Thanks," he mumbled, and then grinned idiotically. He noted that Zane was wearing pajama pants and a wife-beater, and his hair was dry, meaning he hadn't been in the shower. He'd taken too long to come to the door to show up in what Mohinder still considered to be a state of undress. The flush on his face confirmed Mohinder's suspicions. He smiled, more at his own discovery than at Zane. "May I come in? I bought a lot of breakfast. We can divvy it up."

"Of course, yeah, it's freezing out there," Zane replied, and ushered Mohinder inside. "Thanks. This is incredibly thoughtful of you."

The room was warm, and just as he knew, identical to his own. And yet, there were small touches about the place that interested Mohinder. The way everything---his clothes, his toiletries---was methodically laid out in straight lines was unexpected, but most welcome. It was so reassuringly different from the mess of his house in Virginia; Mohinder figured that this must be what he was really like, and the mess in the house had simply resulted from accidents caused by his new ability. Mohinder found himself smiling; he'd always preferred his boyfriends and girlfriends to be neater than him---he knew he needed someone to help keep his untidiness in line. Not that Zane was anything like a boyfriend, he reminded himself, trying not to let his hopes get ahead of him.

Mohinder looked up to find Zane scrutinizing him. "You're looking at how I keep my room?" he asked seriously, and started following Mohinder's eyes around, looking at his stuff, almost as if he were Mohinder looking at it for the first time. "Sorry, I can be kind of scarily anal about stuff."

"No, I like it," Mohinder rushed to affirm. "It's a nice change from the mess that seems to follow me around. You should see my room."

"Yeah, I should," Zane mumbled. His words came out sounding nervous and shy, but the upwards glance that accompanied them was anything but. Mohinder gulped. That was the most open sign he'd had yet.

"So, where should I…?" Mohinder started to ask, looking around him and gesturing at the two cups with his head.

Zane plopped on the bed, patted a space next to him, and reached out for the cups. "Over here. It's not like there's a table. Come, take your coat off and sit."

Mohinder passed him the cups and began removing first his gloves, and then his scarf and coat. He sat down gingerly, wondering in the two steps between where he was standing and where Zane sat on the bed exactly how close Zane wanted him to sit. This seemed to be turning into an opportunity to make something happen, Mohinder thought to himself, and he might as well avail himself of it. It was the only way to attain some resolution to these distracting feelings and focus once again on the project at hand. He ended up sitting close to Zane, not so close that they were on top of one another, but definitely too close for someone who wasn't interested in something more than breakfast.

"The one with the black stripe is yours," he said, reaching for his coffee. "I know you like it with no milk."

"Thanks," Zane replied as he peeked into the bag. "Ooh, raisin danishes. My favorite. And they're still warm! You really remember everything, don't you?"

"Not the way you seem to. I try, but you've got a mind like a steel trap, as far as I can tell."

A proud flush overtook Zane's face, and the confidence that shone through turned Mohinder on even more than Zane's usual sweet mannerisms.

"Yeah, I may have a really good memory, but I can tell when I'm being flattered," Zane said, and elbowed Mohinder playfully in the side. Mohinder's stomach did a little flip, but he took advantage of the situation, and with the practiced nonchalance of someone who was quite used to making advances, he responded by jerking his body to hit Zane's arm with his shoulder and nudge Zane's shoulder with his head.

The laughter became forced and ultimately petered out as their eyes met and it was no longer possible to pretend that there was any other direction for them to go in. Mohinder knew this was the moment. He'd do what he always did: he'd make the first move, see how it went, and then wait for the person to reciprocate by kissing _him_ later on---maybe ten minutes from now, maybe later that day, whenever. That way, he never had to worry that he was coming on too strong to someone who _didn't_ really want him. It was an approach to that had always worked in the past (and he had yet to meet someone who didn't really want him), so he was feeling very confident as he moved his head toward Zane's, stopping just short of Zane's mouth as to the other man to close the last centimeter of distance.

Those pink lips were just as soft and easy to kiss as Mohinder had fantasized. Parted softly, they quivered slightly as he massaged first the lower one and then the upper with his own. Darting his tongue out slightly, he traced it along the edge of Zane's lower lip. This got Zane to respond more aggressively than he had been, surprising Mohinder with the way he attacked Mohinder's lips lightly with his teeth, and slipping his tongue between Mohinder's parted lips into his panting mouth.

Mohinder heard himself moan, and as soon as he did, Zane let out a whimper that Mohinder somehow felt sure he'd been nervously holding in until Mohinder took the first step of making noise.

Without breaking the kiss, Mohinder took this as his cue to move even closer to Zane. He reached his arm around the other man's body so that his hand rested on the bed, gripping Zane's outer hip. Their legs were now completely flush against one another and Mohinder raised his outer one to rest on top of the one touching Zane, all the better to lean into him and deepen the kiss. A heavy weight lifted from his chest as he gave into what was happening between them, thrilling inside at how utterly perfect it felt.

*

*

*

Sylar's mind was whirring as Mohinder's tongue explored the inside of his mouth with an obviously practiced skill that felt like heaven but simultaneously worried him. Something wasn't right. Okay, something was definitely _right_ about this on many levels, but Sylar didn't like feeling that this new object of his acquisitiveness was taking this step because of the wrong reasons. Sylar had been playing a game, a role like all the roles he played with all the people he'd had to interact with in his recent adventures. But here, he found himself not wanting to play a role anymore. This was something more than just a means to more power. Sylar wanted more power and he wanted Mohinder---he had since the first morning in Virginia Beach. It would have been so easy to kill Chandra's naïve son, a beautiful and unexpectedly satisfying way for him to continue his revenge on Chandra, even after the other man's death. But Sylar had stayed his hand and mind. Why? Now that it was happening, he knew it was for the possibility of _this_. It was a victory of sorts to have the almost untouchably perfect and reserved Mohinder coming onto him so forwardly and sincerely, but that very sincerity in the other man made Sylar wish that Mohinder was doing it out of desire for _him_, not for some mask he'd been wearing.

Even as he found himself melting into Mohinder's delicious grasp around his waist, Sylar vowed to be more himself from now on, to relax and see how Mohinder responded. He was sure that the delay wouldn't matter; it was only a matter of time until they found themselves in this position again. Mohinder _would_ find the real him irresistible. Mohinder would try again once he realized how much more interesting Sylar really was. They'd be doing this again, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, but then, Sylar thought to himself, it would be undeniably right and worth the wait. The false name of Zane would have to stay, and he'd still have to hide the powers that completed who he was, but at least he would feel more comfortable that Mohinder was responding to _him_, to something closer to his real personality.

"Mohinder…" he whispered, and although he had decided to drop the cute-and-shy act, he was surprised to hear how cute-and-shyly that still came out. Hm.

Mohinder pulled back but reached out to touch Sylar's face. "I'm sorry, was that too… Are you not…?" Sylar thrilled to see the confusion he'd reduced the other man to. This was its own kind of power, and it only reinforced his decision to keep Mohinder at a distance until such time that they could replay this moment on Sylar's own terms.

"No… Yes…" he struggled to put this properly, and wanted to smack himself for coming across so unsurely---for genuinely _being_ so unsure around Mohinder. "I mean, it's just a little fast. You just met me. You don't really know me," he began, but Mohinder effusively interrupted him.

"But I do. I know it's fast, but I think I know you, and you know me. There's something special here, from the first day. Didn't you feel so, too?" Mohinder asked pleadingly. The look in his eyes stirred a nagging voice inside Sylar that tried to tell him that maybe Mohinder was more right than he wanted to admit, but Sylar shushed the voice and shook his head.

"Maybe, but… can we take it slow for just a little while longer? Just to make sure? I swear I'm not putting you off; I really do want… I just…" And he reached out to take Mohinder's hand as a way of showing that, despite his words, he really was still interested.

Mohinder squeezed Sylar's hand in return, but also scooted back again to a more respectable distance. "I understand, I really do," he said, with a disappointed but still hopeful smile. "Whenever you're ready, just…"

"I will," Sylar promised. They looked at one another awkwardly but glowingly for a moment. Feeling himself acting ridiculous again---and not as differently as he wanted to---Sylar coughed to break the moment. "Want to split this danish with me?" he asked.

After that, they ate breakfast just like two companions on a scientific roadtrip. The meaningful glances they exchanged from time to time were the only hint that anything else lay under the surface or that anything more had just happened between them. As far as Sylar was concerned, it hadn't. He smiled to himself intermittently in anticipation of the real first time, when he could be sure sure Mohinder wanted him for personality traits that were really his own, and not part of a mask. That would be a first kiss worth counting.

****************************************

Mohinder never understood what had happened. He got that Zane was nervous, or new to this, or… well, a million things that were normal but didn't preclude the interest Mohinder was sure Zane had in him. Following both his own personal protocol of waiting for the other person to reciprocate, and also following Zane's stated desire, he'd decided to give Zane more time, making it clear through little glances and touches that his interest would remain steady and waiting until Zane was ready. But nothing ever changed or happened between them in the ensuing time they spent together.

Zane's feeling that Mohinder didn't really "know" him had initially made Mohinder wonder if there was more, but nothing actually surfaced over the next couple of days... well, until the _huge_ thing surfaced, but Mohinder had a feeling that wasn't what "Zane" had quite meant. Zane didn't act any differently. He continued to be just as friendly, interesting, shy, endearingly awkward, and flirty as he had been. The only difference was that flashes of the assertiveness he had betrayed through the closed door blended in a little more with his usual demeanor. If anything, it made Mohinder find him even more desirable, but he maintained his resolve to let Zane take the next step when he was ready.

That time never came, and soon enough, none of it really mattered. Mohinder found out who his new crush really was, and for the few hours that they spent together after the truth clicked for him, everything changed. Then it was Mohinder's turn to play a role, one which he prided himself in having played with as much aplomb as Sylar had played his. Mohinder wasn't the world's greatest actor, and without all those days of genuine friendship and flirtation---and, although he'd never admit it, without the actual feelings that were harder to turn off than he wanted---he probably wouldn't have been able to carry it off.

Therefore, although he'd been disappointed at the time, it turned out to be for the best that things hadn't gone any further than that one simple kiss. Mohinder thought to himself that he'd narrowly escaped being used by the man in yet another disgustingly duplicitous way (although, he sometimes wondered why Sylar hadn't taken advantage of this form of power---to have spent so much time pretending to want Mohinder only in order to not use the feelings Mohinder had betrayed didn't make much sense). In fact, in his subsequent embarrassment, anger and confusion, Mohinder all but erased the moment from his memory as a defense mechanism. He relegated it to something that he only allowed himself to remember in dreams. In short order, Mohinder managed to convince himself that it never happened at all. No, never happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Nathan Petrelli had been a complicated person. As a politician and a man, he had always done what was expected of him. He followed the profession his father had chosen for him in his youth. In his adulthood, he played the role of the politician perfectly. He smiled broadly at babies and the elderly, had an impressively firm handshake, and could always think of a quote-worthy quip. He was the kind of person who had been made for public office.

Nathan Petrelli was still many of these things. However, these days, the handshakes were less vigorous. The smile came less readily, and when it did, it was narrower and about something no one else could guess. The jokes had become not only rarer, but also tinted with a kind of black humour that people didn't always understand.

It was an astute writer for _The New Yorker_ who summed it up best: "Since taking office, joy has gone out of Nathan Petrelli's eyes. He faces the job ahead of him not with the elation of a winner, but with the almost gloomy calm of a man who must now embrace his burdensome destiny. On the day of his swearing in, he became a new man, a man whom every circumstance of fate has pushed into this role."

How right they were, without even knowing it.

Instead of a funeral, Nathan Petrelli had received an inauguration. In many ways, the two affairs were similar in spirit: attended by friends and family (although missing the important presence of his brother), acquaintances, colleagues, hangers-on; full of speeches lauding his life's accomplishments and good qualities; there were even songs and readings. The only difference was that the sermon was delivered by Nathan himself. Bits of the pre-written inauguration speech were cut out and cleverly replaced with double entendres understood only by him. It was an unheard of move, but it fit with his entire story. The fact that he was president at all should have been unheard of, but it was this very quality that made the entire country---nay, the world---so gaga over him. The man who hadn't asked for the office, the man who had retained a sort of political innocence that those who actually go through normal campaigns can't help but lose, the man who seemed to have been chosen by a higher power---anointed, as it were---instead of pedestrianly elected. Nathan Petrelli was a man who had been destined for this role instead of wanting it.

It was true. It was his destiny, painted almost two years before. But the thing is, Sylar had been so focused for so long on waiting for it to happen that he hadn't ever stopped to think about whether or not he wanted this. For all that time, Sylar had studied and observed Nathan Petrelli, from the sidelines, from the media, from whatever conversations he could lend an ear to (some of the government buildings were so thickly lined with lead that even his super-hearing couldn't penetrate them, but he'd done his best to eavesdrop). He'd learned as many of Nathan's habits and particularities as he could. He'd studied the laws of the land, history, world politics. He'd memorized the names and ranks of every important world leader. He'd even studied the current president's habits as well as he could to make the transition easier.

However, despite all this studying, Sylar had never gained a passion for the thing. Only when he returned to the White House after the inauguration and received his first, eight-hour briefing on the world did it occur to him that this might be a problem. He was bored stiff then, and now, a month into his presidency, he was still bored. Even worse, he felt trapped and repressed.

It wasn't just the obvious suppression of self that comes from assuming another man's face and identity. That in itself was agonizing, for many reasons… almost no one had ever responded in this way to Sylar or Gabriel Gray, but now people literally swooned; was Nathan Petrelli really so much more attractive, or was it the personality? Either answer was depressing. Sylar's only ray of hope on that front was that someone better than all of Nathan's admirers had noticed Sylar once… but that time---everything from his previous life---was something best pushed into the recesses of his mind and forgotten.

In addition to the physical aspects, there was the fact that this new role, this new way of being special, necessitated giving up all the things that had formerly made him so special. Now that he was here, Sylar didn't know how he hadn't thought of this problem before. Yes, he still had all his powers, but what was the point if he could never use them? Sylar ached to reach for his coffee cup using his mind. He missed being able to flick on the lights without touching the switch. He fondly remembered the days when he could radiate cold food without the use of a microwave. But these days, everywhere he turned, there were people. People he had to meet with, interns, the security detail that almost never left his side, Nathan's goddamn wife. People breathing down his neck every minute of every day to make decisions about things he didn't care about. People expecting him to be peppy and charismatic in a way that felt alien to him. After so many years spent in almost complete solitude, this was fast becoming the most oppressive experience of his life.

For example, here he was in his usual Friday evening wrap-up meeting with selected members of his staff. Everyone was giving their updates and strategy ideas for different issues facing the country. He groaned internally to realize that this god-awful meeting was actually a high point in a week that had included such non-diverting appointments as a six-hour negotiation with the auto manufacturing labor union (as if he gave a flying fuck about their pensions), a long meeting with the defense secretary about the situation in Chechnya (a place he could barely be bothered to pronounce, let alone send troops to), a couple of hours spent reading books to kindergarteners (a horror so absolute that he pretended to feel ill fifteen minutes into it so he could cut it short).

One of the few bright spots in his days was bedtime. Yes, he still had to read more briefings of things his staff thought he ought to know (French finance minister imprisoned, interest rates about to be raised, results of a successful CIA mission in Afghanistan) but at least he was usually left alone, unwatched by cameras or security. Not so the previous night. Sylar's quiet bedtime had been ruined by the arrival of Heidi climbing into bed with him, and---an even worse horror than reading to the children had been---trying to… be his wife. He'd arranged his schedule so that he'd only had to deal with this a couple of times so far, and this time was unexpected. In his discomfort, he told her the first lie he could think of. The end result was that, to add insult to the injury of his week, he'd had to listen to some other man's wife pity and console him about an erectile dysfunction problem he didn't have, and then self-flagellate herself for being so insensitive as to have tried to pressure him into sex even though he already had so much pressure on him from the rest of the world. Ugh.

Sylar didn't love these Friday meetings, but considering all this other misery, they were better than other things he had to do. He was able to sit at his desk in the Oval Office while everyone else arranged themselves on chairs and the two beautiful leather sofas in the room. He used to think that being President meant that he could lord it over everyone, but not so. Everything was about diplomacy and boosting other people's egos. These meetings, in which his chair felt sort of like a throne, were among the only times when he got to feel the way he had expected to feel as leader of the free world.

They were also, so far, the only times he'd gotten to see Mohinder.

Nathan had been the one to recommend Mohinder to join the team working on "solutions" to the newly discovered "meta-human" problem one week after the explosion. Just as Nathan started out as a simple congressman, Mohinder had started as a simple researcher. They rose together; every time fate (or the machinations of some other party… Sylar always had a nagging doubt, despite his desire to believe it was fated) threw Nathan into a higher position, Mohinder, too, rose through the ranks. But it was Sylar who had taken the final step and solidified their quiet duality.

On his first day as president, he'd been given a large stack of papers: appointments that needed to be filled, accompanied by recommendations from his staff on who should fill them. Mohinder's name had appeared on the list for the top science job, but nowhere near the top. Nevertheless, Sylar scribbled Mohinder's name on the form and slipped it into the stack with a little grin. If he was going to have to live this life, he wanted Mohinder to have to share the burden, too. The job came with the same sort of managerial, administrative, and social responsibilities that Sylar hated about his own. Different as he had a feeling Mohinder wanted to think he was from Sylar (not that he knew, not having spoken to the man since that unsuccessful phone call), they were alike in being single-minded and solitary creatures who loathed the imposition of bureaucracy into their lives.

The appointment had caused a scandal, of sorts. The President had received a private dressing down from Matthew Robinson, his press secretary, a small man with reddish hair and a wheezing voice whom Sylar longed to kill. It was an often-whispered secret in the White House that the only person who didn't adore the new president was the press secretary, who complained that the man seemed to go out of his way to make his job harder. Why hadn't the president informed him that he had made this radical decision? Why was it that the only way he, the press secretary, had found out was because a reporter had by some coincidence happened upon a very confused and surprised Suresh the day he received the good news via email? How was he supposed to spin this to the public? What was his problem, Robinson asked, that made President Petrelli seem to want to jeopardize his own carefully constructed image?

The problem was that the president didn't really care. In a petty, semi-self-destructive way, he wanted to tarnish Nathan's name as revenge for having destroyed Sylar's own. It was Nathan who outed the existence of the evolved humans to the world. It was Nathan who concocted the false tale of how the explosion happened, even though Sylar knew full well that Peter had secretly confessed his responsibility to him. It was Nathan who named Sylar as the perpetrator of this great tragedy. Through these lies, Nathan had gained world-wide recognition and respect, and had been set down the path of extraordinary circumstances that would land him in the Oval Office. Because of these things, Sylar had convinced himself that it was only fair for him to now sit in this chair. Nathan had made these gains by unjustly vilifying him, so it was a kind of karma, or poetic justice, that Sylar felt in taking his place. Although, now that he found himself so trapped and despondent, he sometimes wondered if the justice was quite as sweet as he had originally thought.

At any rate, Mohinder's appointment to the directorship of investigation for a solution to the meta-human problem ended up being a rousing success. After calming down, the press secretary and his staff concocted a beautiful and compelling story. It was almost too perfect. The visionary's son following in the footsteps of his revered father, who had been killed by Sylar, the same man who had killed so many millions and forced the world into these terrible times. A scientist driven by a personal need to avenge and right the wrongs inflicted on his family, which were a small-scale analogy of the wrongs inflicted upon the world by the same man. A friend of the president back in the days when he was nothing but a district attorney (strange, that no one ever asked how or why they had met). Like the president, a man who had shown nothing but shock and surprise as this promotion, and who seemed to humbly fear the great responsibility that lay on his shoulders, but faced it bravely anyway. It was as though fate had joined them together to show the world new promise. Although some politicos were less than thrilled, the country ate it up.

The press conference about it had been the first time Sylar had gotten near Mohinder. Sadly, they hadn't had much of a chance to talk, then or since. He looked just as out of place as Sylar would have without his disguise. His long and unprofessional hair, his equally coiffed stubble, his pants and blazer that came from entirely the wrong kind of store, his uniquely exotic good looks. He even gave a speech that was charming, in a way, but too full of high-falutin prose. It all combined to create a package that was breathtaking, yet inappropriate to the situation. At the end, Sylar had grabbed Mohinder and raised their joined hands high, Mohinder giving the president a confusing sidelong glance. Sylar simply squeezed his hand even harder and smiled as widely as he could for the photographers. It actually felt slightly less fake than usual.

Now, during the meeting, Sylar repressed a smile as he called on Mohinder to give his weekly update. The man was sweating. It was only his second of these meetings, and he looked the same way Sylar had felt on those early days. It was nice to see the emotions he despised in himself mirrored in Mohinder's face, and to know that he had been powerful enough to inflict this on him.

"Dr. Suresh, anything new this week?"

Mohinder began to stand, but then remembered that the protocol was to continue sitting, so he ended up shifting awkwardly to hide his previous motion. He cleared his throat and announced, "My report is similar to last week's. We're continuing to---"

"You mean you're still in nowheresville," interrupted the secretary of homeland security, to whom Mohinder's job was understandably linked. "You've been working on this for how long now, and you're---"

"That's enough, McMahon," Sylar ordered. He liked the look Mohinder shot him---a look of gratitude. How deliciously ironic. And even beyond that, just… nice.

"Yes, but…" McMahon was not to be so easily dissuaded. Earlier that day, they'd had a meeting in which McMahon had presented an itemized list of complaints and reasons why Dr. Suresh's tenure was a mistake and should be terminated. The president has listened quietly and given no definitive response.

"We talked about this earlier." On cue, Mohinder's face froze in fear, and Sylar could see him panicking. "Is that all, Dr. Suresh?"

"Yes, sir," Mohinder responded dejectedly.

"Well, that's it. Until next week." Sylar dismissed them all with a dramatic flick of his wrist. He didn't care if the gesture was more regal than presidential, because dismissing people thus was the only way he ever felt like he was somehow exercising the old power. A flick of the wrist and things---in this case, people---moved.

They all gathered their papers, straightened their jackets, and slowly made their way to the door.

"Dr. Suresh, would you stay a minute?" he called, and Mohinder froze mid-gait.

"Now you're going to get it," McMahon whispered nastily in Mohinder's ear. It was almost too softly spoken for even Mohinder to hear it but…

"I heard that," Sylar said dangerously. McMahon jumped a mile and stalked out, leaving Mohinder and Sylar alone in the office.

Mohinder was standing still and uncertain near the door while Sylar approached him predatorily. "Mr. President…" he began.

"Please, sit."

Mohinder blustered, a reaction Sylar remembered as his natural response to feeling cornered. "Look, I---"

Sylar put both hands on Mohinder's shoulders and led him to the sofa. He gently pushed him into a seated position and then sat down beside him, just a little too close for boss and employee, but not enough to be _too_ weird. Sylar hadn't been this close to anyone since the last time he'd been next to Mohinder (he really couldn't count Heidi; he didn't want to think about it). It was something comfortable to return to. Comfortable and yet not, because he had no idea how Nathan used to act around him. The lab building had been one of the places he couldn't listen in on. Given their mutual rise, he assumed they were friends, or at least friendly, but he had no idea how much.

"Well," he began, avoiding names, since he didn't know how Nathan used to address the other man. But Mohinder eagerly cut him off.

"I know McMahon hates me. I'm his worst nightmare. Some foreigner in charge of the sibling branch of Homeland Security. And I know progress has been slow, but please don't fire me." There was impassioned longing and fear in his eyes that Sylar remembered from that moment when he had stepped out of his torture chair in New York, so long ago.

Sylar paused for dramatic effect; he wasn't going to let Mohinder go, but he wanted to make him sweat, and see if he had become any different in the elapsed time. "McMahon says that I made a mistake, but I'm willing to listen to your side of the story," he said seriously.

Mohinder had to think about this. "You don't understand. This is something I need. Something I'm destined for and have to do."

"Because of Sylar. Because you need to prove something to his memory even though he's gone? Get revenge?" Sylar had been there for the press conference, but he wanted to hear if it was true from Mohinder's own lips.

"Revenge?" Mohinder seemed surprised at the suggestion, as though it was the last thing on his mind. "No, not revenge."

"Then what?"

Mohinder looked off into the middle distance. "Guilt," he whispered. "I think I might have been able to stop it, to prevent the explosion, but I lacked the compassion. I was too focused on the very revenge you're talking about. That was my undoing. I lacked the ability to be the bigger man and reach out."

"None of us could have prevented that, Mohinder." It was true. There was nothing Mohinder could have done to prevent Peter from exploding that day, but there was no way he could know that. It was an interesting revelation, though. The entire world equated Sylar with evil and destruction, so it was a surprise to find out that Mohinder was the only living person who felt something other than hatred for his memory.

"I know. You've told me that before, but it's a feeling not even logic can dispel."

Sylar changed tack as a way to remove from his mouth the unpleasant taste of having the same conversation Nathan had had with him. Yes, it meant he was easing naturally into his role, but he didn't want to do so without meaning to, and definitely not with this particular person. "Do you like your job, Mohinder?" he asked.

Mohinder paused and thought about this before passing it back. "Do _you?_"

Not to be outdone, Sylar threw it back at him. "Why in the world would you think that I might not?"

Mohinder looked down at the couch and traced invisible lines from one buttoned indentation in the leather to the next. "I don't know. Something in the way you've been acting in recent press events, in your radio broadcasts."

Sylar smiled. "Have you always followed my movements so closely?" He panicked a little after the question escaped his lips, but on second thought, he calmed down. It wasn't too off-kilter of a question.

"Only recently. Only since you took office."

"Why now?" Sylar asked, with a glimmer of hope---for what, he didn't know.

Mohinder continued to muse, and spoke very slowly. "Lots of reasons. But among them is that something has seemed… different. As if you don't like all this anymore. Which is why I ask."

"I don't." It was so liberating, saying it aloud for the first time and getting this awful truth off his chest. This was the most honest he'd been about anything in a long time. He looked searchingly at Mohinder, hoping the other man couldn't see the inexplicable gratitude in his face.

"Neither do I," Mohinder whispered, and then lost it. He began to fitfully enumerate his grievances. "The little tasks, the constant compromising, the stupid press secretary---"

"Exactly!" Sylar exclaimed. In his flowing relief and joy at finding a confidante, he forgot himself and grabbed Mohinder's hands. Their eyes shone at one another for a moment, but then Mohinder became serious again.

"Despite all that, I need to do this. I need to feel that I'm contributing. Please don't take it away. I need this," he pleaded, somewhat incoherently. The desperation and sadness in his voice almost broke Sylar. He reached out tentatively and rubbed Mohinder's shoulders.

"I'm not going to fire you. If I did, I'd be left all alone in here," Sylar confessed.

Mohinder broke into a relieved grin. Ever-present fear lingered behind his eyes, but everyone was always a little bit scared these days. Sylar was still thinking about this when Mohinder launched himself at him.

It wasn't so much of a kiss as it was a full-body assault. Hands, lips, arms, and hair all conspired to overwhelm him with grabs, nibbles, squeezes, and tickles that ranged from his forehead all the way around his lower back. Not even his legs were spared, as Mohinder pushed Sylar down onto the couch with the strength of his kisses, and positioned himself between Sylar's legs, rubbing the inside of his thighs with his own.

It was amazing. Their lips fit together like they had been made for each other, and Mohinder kissed with the kind of laser-sharp passion that Sylar had always wanted someone to feel for him. Long fingers felt feverishly along his neck and in his hair, and quickly began pulling his shirt up and out of his pants. A thumb kneaded his back muscles. After the initial shock wore off, Sylar found himself responding, arching up so that their torsos pressed together. Mohinder's name was constantly on his tongue, wanting to be moaned, but the part of his brain that still functioned kept him silent, for fear that Mohinder would return the sound with the name of Nathan. So, instead he focused on loosening Mohinder's tie and using it to pull them even closer to one other.

After awhile, Sylar ran out of air. He broke the kiss and moved to disentangle himself from the grip of this released tiger. Mohinder got the message and leaned back. Sylar supported himself on his elbows and looked at him while concentrating on reclaiming his usual mastery over himself. Mohinder's hair was wild and his face flushed. It was the most gorgeous Sylar had ever seen him, and he was all his---the one thing that was his alone. All of a sudden, a horrible question froze him.

"Mohinder… I… we… have…?" he stammered and worked to catch his breath.

Sylar had no idea how to phrase it. Had Mohinder and Nathan done this before, or was this what he wanted it to be, a beautiful reunion between two people who had no business getting a second chance? It was the either best or the worst possibility. Either Mohinder was the worst kind of sloppy seconds inherited from Nathan like everything else in his life, or Mohinder was the only thing in his life that was truly his.

Mentally buttoning himself back up after his recent loss of control, Mohinder was now distracted and awkward. "I'm sorry. I can't believe I… there are cameras in here, aren't there?"

This told Sylar nothing. Was Mohinder embarrassed about the possibility of having been watched or about having made a move? The worry nagged at him and made it difficult for him to fully enjoy what had just happened.

"No, this may be the one place where there are no cameras." He forced a laugh. "Or, at least I hope."

"That's good," Mohinder said hollowly.

"Mohinder, are you alright?" Sylar asked tenderly, hoping that this might elicit some resolution to his worry.

Distraught, Mohinder held his face in his hands and looked frantically everywhere in the room except at Sylar. "No, really, I can't believe I was so presumptuous. You're the President of the United States of America. You have a wife, and children, more responsibilities than anyone imaginable. We barely… I don't know how I could have possibly---"

"First time for everything, right?" Sylar hoped this was vague enough but would yet still clinch it.

"Yes, I suppose there is."

The elation Sylar felt at finally knowing for sure that this was their first time, in at least this particular sense of the word, was tempered by the uncertainty that now seemed to have transferred to the other man. Mohinder placed one hand on Sylar's chest and searched his face with his eyes. He looked expectant, as if he was waiting for Sylar to do something.

"What is it?"

Mohinder continued to wait. "I have a policy," he mumbled.

"What is it?" Sylar placed a hand on Mohinder's knee. Mohinder shivered at the touch and now transferred his gaze to that hand, as if making a decision about it. When Mohinder remained silent, Sylar leaned in again and kissed him lightly underneath his jaw. "I'm the king of policies, you may have noticed," he joked.

Mohinder wrapped his arms around him and buried his hands in his hair. "It doesn't matter anymore. You just answered my question."

They kissed lazily now, just basking in the quiet glow of newfound physicality. However, there was one last thing to ascertain. Sylar was pleased, but this still wasn't perfect.

"Has all this been long in the making?" Sylar asked, hoping the offhand, teasing tone of his voice would mask the desperate directness of the inquiry.

Mohinder shook his head. "Not really. Only since that day at the press conference about my promotion, when you grabbed my hand for the cameras. After all those times that we've met, all of a sudden it felt like something clicked. It was then that I started watching the news, watching you." Mohinder paused. "I hope that doesn't sound creepy."

"No, it doesn't."

"You felt it that day, too?" Mohinder asked, probably based on the joy in Sylar---Nathan's---Sylar's eyes and voice.

Another time for truth. In this past month of apathy, and after all those years of solitude and deception, he never thought he would find this. "No, long before."

The two men beamed at one another. Sylar decided that since he was already being so open and feeling like himself for the first time in ages, he'd do the one thing that remained to make him whole again. He grasped Mohinder firmly around the body and floated them up into the air. Mohinder gasped.

Nathan had ignored it, denied it, tried his best to forget that he could fly. He'd rejected his ability and this aspect of himself so wholeheartedly that it would have been unfair to call it a part of him. Of all the people whose abilities he had acquired, Sylar felt that Nathan's belonged to him most rightly, because it had been so completely unwanted by its owner. It was what made the power of flight so completely his. And flight was also what made Mohinder his. In this, too, Mohinder and Sylar were alike. They both wore the mask expected of them by society and pretended to fear and despise the presence of evolved humans in their midst. They both pretended to be single-mindedly focused on finding a solution, and buried deep the fact that they found abilities fascinating and wonderful. The open-mouthed look of pure awe on Mohinder's face as they floated a few feet above the couch was the same look he had given Zane Taylor so long ago.

As Sylar landed them softly back on the couch, this time with their bodies flipped so that it was he who lay on top of Mohinder, he thought back to that time. Back then, he had told himself that anything that happened with Mohinder couldn't count because he wasn't being himself. Now, reveling in the joy of the other man's warmth, and with the knowledge that he would be trapped with another man's face and name indefinitely, Sylar decided to revise his stance somewhat. What he was sharing with Mohinder was honest---much more honest than what they had shared on the way to Montana. This time, he was sure, despite the sensual murmurs of "Nathan," Mohinder wanted him for him; wasn't that better than having Mohinder want him for his body but not his soul? He decided to count this night as the first time. And, he reminded himself two nights later when he was luxuriously removing Mohinder's shirts in the comfort of his bedroom, nothing makes something a first time like having it be followed by a second, and a third, and a fourth…

As time went on, the only secret that remained between them was the biggest one of all. Other than that, they were one another's closest confidantes. Instead of having Mohinder ousted, it was McMahon who was dismissed. The rest of the administration learned not to cross the president when it came to his friend, advisor, and scientific expert. They were remarkably discreet, so no one ever knew that Mohinder had become his lover, as well. It all worked very well, and the press secretary continually found ways to make the appealing Dr. Suresh a face of the administration. The country's love of both men only grew as their partnership deepened. Years passed and they---

***************************************************

"Don't worry, New York! We will save you!"

"Get down from there, Hiro. Do you want to fall off the roof?" Ando admonished. Hiro hopped down from the ledge, and soon an entire universe's worth of experiences detached itself from reality and floated away, as if it had never been.

It was probably for the best, all things considered.


End file.
